


take my arms that i might reach you

by starsshinedarkly77



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, Meta, Post-Pacifist Route, this is melancholy but not super sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-18
Updated: 2015-11-18
Packaged: 2018-05-02 05:06:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5235290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starsshinedarkly77/pseuds/starsshinedarkly77
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A walk home from school forces Frisk to contemplate the true meaning of mercy. Post-pacifist ending.</p>
            </blockquote>





	take my arms that i might reach you

**Author's Note:**

> Ah my first fic being posted to ao3! So exciting! Hope you like it! This is crossposted from my tumblr of the same name so don't worry if you see if on there - I haven't stolen my own fic!

It’s rare that Frisk ever has to walk home by themselves; despite the fact that they are very nearly twelve (which they remind Toriel of at every possible opportunity) and their home is only a couple blocks away, their adoptive mother always insists that either she or Sans or even Papyrus, occasionally, accompany Frisk home in the afternoon when school gets out. Today, however, when Frisk exits the building amongst a sea of their chattering classmates, little fists clenched tightly on the straps of their backpack, and scans the schoolyard for Toriel and Sans, they see neither. They maneuver their way through the crowd, seeing if it's possible that Papyrus is here instead, or even Undyne and Alphys, but when they see none of their friends waiting to walk them home, they plop down on a bench to wait; Toriel must have gotten held up at her job unexpectedly and was unable to get a message to Frisk before school got out, that’s all.

However, as the schoolyard clears out and Frisk is left alone on the bench, there’s still no sign of Toriel. Frisk crosses and uncrosses their legs, picks at a scab on their elbow, and watches two particularly rowdy squirrels chase each other up and down the trees across the street. No one appears.

After a few more minutes of waiting, Frisk slowly gets up from the bench. They aren’t worried, per se, just a little bit uneasy. Their cellphone, stuffed at the bottom of their backpack, is dead; they lent their charger to Napstablook earlier in the week and keep forgetting to retrieve it. Frisk glances up and down the street once more, then hoists their backpack higher on their shoulders. There’s nothing for it, then. Frisk will just have to walk.

They set off down the sidewalk towards home, black sneakers slapping determinedly against the pavement, taking care to avoid the cracks - an old childhood habit they haven’t quite been able to break. They pass the park, the street lamp Undyne always sticks her gum on, the big red house on the corner with the big front porch. This is fine. They do this every day. It’s not quite the same without Toriel asking about their day, or Sans cracking jokes as he swings Frisk over the cracks in the pavement, but it’s certainly not scary. Frisk squares their shoulders. It’s not scary. So why, then, do they feel so uneasy?

They round the corner (only one more street until they’re home), and -

Oh.

That’s why.

Growing up through the pavement, in the massive crack that Frisk and Sans always pretend is a canyon that has to be leapt over, is a flower.

The flower has a face.

For a moment, Frisk forgets where they are. They’re not safe on the Surface, walking home; they’re back Underground, surrounded by darkness on every side, watching their friends struggle in the grip of thorny vines. Frisk is cold down to the bones. Every instinct tells them to run and yet….they can’t move at all.

Frisk, mercifully, hasn’t seen Flowey since their conversation with Asriel. Deep down, Frisk realizes, they had hoped that Flowey’s power was broken so entirely that he wouldn’t be able to come back together - that Asriel would be able to fade away in peace. What a stupid hope to have, clearly. They should have known better than that, known that Flowey wouldn’t let them go so easily, even with Asriel’s soul resisting them. Should have known that Flowey would hunt them down, kill them, all their friends; that even if he couldn’t have the power he wanted, he would take what revenge he still could.

And yet…Flowey isn’t grinning. He isn’t even really frowning. More than anything he looks….tired. The yellow petals around his face are half wilted, and one of the leaves at the base of his stem looks like it’s close to falling off completely. And, strangest of all, he doesn’t speak when he sees Frisk. He just. Stares. Waits.

They stare at one another, completely still, for what feels like an eternity. And then Frisk steps forward. Flowey keeps staring. Frisk gets closer, closer, closer. Flowey waits. Frisk stands in front of him. He doesn’t move. Frisk kneels down.

They half expect vines to ensnare their ankles, then, for Flowey’s face to stretch and distort in a horrific parody of a grin as he laughs, smashes Frisk to pieces. But he doesn’t. He blinks up at them and does not speak.

There are many questions Frisk wants to ask, things they want to say, but they’ve always been a child of few words, haven’t they? Words aren’t always reliable, Frisk knows. Words can lie; questions can hide their intent; answers can be crafted to conceal the truth. So instead of talking, Frisk contemplates.

Contemplates, truly, deeply, what mercy means. They aren’t supposed to remember, they know, the first time their adventure ‘ended’, the path where they escaped but left their friends Underground, the path where Asgore died, the path where they stood before Flowey and chose mercy, one last time. Without that mercy, they wouldn’t have known to go back, go back just once more, and finally give the Underground its freedom. Frisk has mercy to thank for a lot of things.

Mercy has always been synonymous with life, in Frisk’s mind. There was a way to resolve every conflict without violence; there was always a way to save everyone.

And yet….they hadn’t been able to save Asriel, not really, had they? You couldn’t save someone who was dead. Asriel had always been out of Frisk’s reach, from the very beginning. Out of everyone’s reach. He was gone. The remnant that lived on in Flowey was little more than a whisper. A memory. A piece of a Soul that had to watch itself do horrible things, again and again. Asriel was dead, but as long as Flowey survived, he couldn’t move on. Would never know peace.

So now, staring down at Flowey, Frisk evaluates their own definition of mercy. Appraises it. Changes it. Determination has always told them to hold on, but now, it tells them that it’s time to let go.

Frisk stretches out a hand and wraps it around Flowey’s stem. This is when Flowey smiles, shuts his eyes, and Frisk sees the shadow of Asriel cross over his face. Frisk plucks the flower.

It comes up by its roots through the crack in the pavement, dropping chunks of soil. The threadbare leaf finally drops from the stem and floats to the ground. Frisk is left holding a flower. A flower and nothing more.

 

A few days later, Frisk mixes the golden petals into the soil in Asgore’s garden, and tells no one.


End file.
